Broken Gears
by AbraxasStreit
Summary: "Every machine needs to be well-oiled, and every gear needs to play its part. But sometimes there are the gears that just don't fit, and they need to be eliminated for the betterment of the machine as a whole." Wherein Dean is the faulty gear and Castiel's supposed to fix the problem. WIP, eventual Destiel.


**Title: **Broken Gears

**Rating: **John Travolta once told me that if it says the F word more than once, it's rated R. So I'll just go with **M** for this story, because I know Dean is going to be a fan of the F word.

**Summary: "**Every machine needs to be well-oiled, and every gear needs to play its part. But sometimes there are the gears that just don't fit, and they need to be eliminated for the betterment of the machine as a whole." Dean Winchester is exactly the wrong kind of gear, and it is Castiel's job to fix the problem. But part of the problem with defective gears is that they have a tendency to break the gears around them.

**Disclaimer: **They don't belong to me~ (butIwishtheydid)

Chapter 1

Dean is fairly certain he is being stalked. Or maybe haunted.

Laugh all you want, but he can _feel _it –eyes on him, burning holes into the back of his head and lifting the hairs on the back of his neck, but he turns to look back and there's _no one there._

It had started the previous morning. Dean, brushing his teeth, suddenly had the uncanny feeling that someone was there, in the bathroom, watching him. He paused, toothbrush poised mid-stoke over his teeth, and caught his own gaze in the bathroom mirror. He set down the toothbrush slowly, narrowing his eyes and leaning forward to examine his reflection. There was _something _off –but there was a sudden rush of air that made him blink, and whatever it was vanished. The feeling of being watched was gone, and he was completely alone in his bathroom. He was left with his face inches from the mirror, frothy toothpaste lining the corners of his mouth, looking ridiculous.

He straightened up, shaking his head and laughing slightly at his own silliness, and continued on with his tooth brushing.

The rest of his morning passed without incident. It hadn't been until he was at work that he'd felt it again. He was buried under a particularly junky scrap of car that had become a bit of a pet project for him when it washed over him –that same eerie, disconcerting feeling of eyes on him that made him feel twitchy and unfocused. He ignored it at first, trying to concentrate on his work, but he just couldn't seem to shake it off. _Bobby_, he'd called out, pulling himself out from under the car.

_What?_ Bobby called back, not bothering to exit his office.

_You_ _get security cameras in here or something?_ Dean was practically bristling, casting weary glances around to find who –or _what_– the hell was staring at him. Bobby looked unimpressed.

_I ain't got no need for cameras,_ he'd said gruffly, sticking his head out of his office to scowl at Dean.

As soon as Dean could see him, the feeling stopped. A small gust of wind, and then –nothing. No eyes, no _anything_. His initial reaction was surprise, then suspicion, and finally something which unfurled cold in the pit of his stomach that may have been dread.

_You okay, Dean?_

Dean jumped. Bobby had left his office, staring at Dean with a look that partially said he was worried but mostly said he thought Dean was being an idiot. Dean had forgotten about him completely.

_Uh –yeah, Bobby. I'm good. Just feeling a bit off today, I guess._ He offered Bobby a grin, and if it was somewhat less confident than usual, it was just because he didn't _need _to be overly charming with Bobby.

Bobby stared at him for a long moment, brow furrowed. Dean fidgeted, resisting the urge to wipe his grease-covered hands over his face. _You oughta take a break, kid,_Bobby said finally. Dean hadn't really wanted to, but he didn't want Bobby to worry, so he reluctantly sat down with his ham and cheese sandwich and took his lunch early.

It wasn't until he got back under the car an hour later that the eyes came back. He nearly bashed his own head in when he dropped his wrench, and Bobby sent him home early despite his protests, telling him that he was no use to anyone dead.

So, yeah, Dean is being stalked. By something. He just isn't sure exactly _what_. Logically, it can't be anything other than a human being –ghosts just don't _exist_. But Dean can't explain it any other way, because every time he _looks_, he's alone, and crazy isn't an option he wants to dwell on.

He's at his brother's house, now, the eyes still on him as he sits in the foyer, waiting for dinner to start. Sam had invited him over to dinner a week ago, and Dean hadn't really wanted to go because he's not particularly a fan of fancy family dinners, but Sam had insisted, saying he had something important to tell him.

"Dean, would you mind helping Sam set the table?" a bright voice calls from the kitchen, and Dean huffs, lurching off the couch to help despite not wanting to. The eyes stay on him, and Dean does his very best to ignore them.

"Sure, Jess," he says as he enters the kitchen. The feeling of being watched dissipates as soon as he steps through the doorway. He shakes himself a little, then shoots his brother's girlfriend a charming and flirtatious smile that's probably not quite as stunning as it usually is, given how creeped out he's feeling. Sam has his back turned, reaching into the cupboards to pull out stacks of tableware. Jess rolls her eyes at Dean, and he swears he hears her snort. His cheesy grin fades into something more sincere.

He likes Jess –she's sweet, in a kick-your-ass sort of way. She's innocent and bright and she makes some of the best damn apple pie he's ever had. She'd be a wonderful sister, and she's exactly right for Sam. If he's honest, that worries Dean. He's not sure what it is about cookie-cutter relationships, but something about them freaks him out. He's sure that if any one thing could destroy someone, it's finding a slice of perfect and having it ripped away. He saw it happen to his father after his mother's death, and he hates the idea of it happening to Sam.

"Dean," Sam says, and Dean suspects from his tone of voice that he's said it more than once. He's holding out a small stack of plates and some glasses to Dean, and Dean takes them with an apologetic grin.

"Sorry," he offers, turning to go into the dining room, "I guess I spaced out."

Sam hums in acknowledgement, already placing silverware and napkins artfully around the table. Dean isn't quite sure why, but every time he has dinner at Sam's house, it's a huge deal to his little brother. He always sets at least two too many spots at the table, and Dean figures it has something to do with their father and the way they grew up without ever really _having _family dinners. He supposes that's probably the exact reason he hates them, but he's willing to sit through them now and again, if only for Sammy.

He sets down his assigned crockery absently, and when he's finished he learns against the wall with his eyes closed and waits for dinner.

_**xoxoxoxoxo**_

Dinner, Dean is happy to discover, is roast beef with mashed potatoes. There's a plate of broccoli, too, but Dean steers clear of that –Sam's the one who needs his vegetables, not Dean, and who exactly was it that decided broccoli was edible, anyway? The first half of dinner passes without event, just mild-mannered conversation and light teasing. There are no disembodied eyes watching him, and he's enjoying his meal.

"Dean," Sam says suddenly, and Dean can practically _taste_ the shift in mood. It sours his potatoes, and he drops his fork back down to his plate, looking at Sam expectantly. This must be his brother's big news. Jessica looks nervous, now. Sam smiles at her, taking her hand gently in his own, and looking at Dean with a look of grim determination.

"We're getting married," he says, and Dean stares at him for a long moment because, seriously, what was with the somber mood when they were telling him such an awesome thing?

"That's fantastic!" he exclaims, grinning at them both. He means it, too. As much as relationships aren't his thing, they're definitely his brother's, and he's beyond happy for him. For the both of them. Jessica grins back, tears glistening in her eyes, but Sam's face is still serious. Dean snorts. "What, Sam, did you think I wouldn't be _happy_ for you?"

Sam frowns. "Well, no," he says, "but that isn't all I need to–"

Dean shudders, suddenly, as a cool gust breathes over him and the hair on the back of his neck lifts, goose spreading form over his skin. He can feel it again –that intense gaze drilling through him. He jerks around in his seat, nearly knocking his glass over as he attempts once again to find whatever the hell is staring at him. Once again, he finds nothing but air. His mind whirls, trying to figure out what's going on, to think of a reason _why_.

"Dean?" Sam's voice cuts through Dean's disjointed thought process, and he jumps slightly because he's forgotten that Sam and Jessica are there. Sam looks annoyed, and Jessica looks worried. Or maybe frightened. Dean can't quite tell.

"Uh –yeah. What? Sorry, I –what?" he tries to focus on Sam, tries not to squirm as that invisible gaze bores into him from behind.

"I was _saying_–"

"Jesus, can't either of you _feel _this?" Dean demands, rolling his shoulders like he's got an itch that he can't scratch.

Sam stares at him, unimpressed. "Quit fooling around, Dean, I'm trying to tell you–"

"I'm not fooling, man!"

"Sam," Jess says quietly, looking at Dean worriedly. Sam ignores her.

"_We are moving to California!_" he shouts. Everything seems to stop. Dean freezes mid-squirm. The whole room is deadly quiet. Even the eyes stop.

"What?" Dean asks quietly, because he can't have heard that right. California? Why would Sam want to go there? Away from home, and their friends, and –and away from _Dean_.

"Jess and I," Sam clarifies hesitantly, then clears his throat and continues more strongly, "are going to California. Moving there."

The eyes are back, now, more intense than ever, but Dean's ignoring them. He stares dumbly at Sam, then at Jessica, who looks like she might be about to cry. Dean looks away quickly, focusing on Sam –he can't deal with crying. Not his own, and definitely not a pretty girl's. He shakes his head. "_No_," he says forcefully, desperately. "Sammy, you _can't._"

Sam lifts his head defiantly, as though he needs the extra height despite already having a good three inches on Dean. "We _can_," he says confidently, "and we _will_."

Dean feels inexplicably betrayed. The rational side of him knows that Sam can do whatever he wants. That side is happy, relieved even, because he's never really been able to take the weight of taking care of Sammy, even though he practically raised him. It means that he'll be able to stop doing things for Sam and do everything for himself. The overprotective brother side says that's a load of shit and Sammy _needs_ him.

The other side of him, the emotional side that Dean doesn't like very much, thinks that's it's _him _who needs _Sam_.

"No," he says again, but it sounds weak even to his own ears. The eyes, at least, don't seem so intense now. Dean snorts somewhat hysterically, because he's pretty sure the phantom eyes are _averting_ themselves –still there, but looking away as though they don't think they have a right to see this. "Didn't seems to have a problem watching while I was in the fucking _shower_," he mutters bitterly.

"Dean," Sam says for the thousandth time that evening, sounding hesitant and gentle. "I know this is a big deal."

Dean scoffs, rolls his eyes, tries to play it off. "Nah, Sammy," he says, trying to sound cocky but coming off more like a scared kid. "It's cool."

Sam shakes his head, but it's Jessica who leans forward to grab Dean's hands softly. He tries to avoid meeting her eyes, but she stares at him until he can't help but look up. Her eyes are red and her make-up is runny, and Dean feels a stab of guilt. "Dean," she says softy, expression gentle and pleading and forgiving and apologetic and _fuck_, she is too good for his family. Just like Sam. His shoulders slump and he looks away from Jess.

Sam takes that as a cue to start talking again. "We're going to get married, Dean. Out here." Dean scowls, but says nothing. "And then we're going to California."

Dean nods, because yeah, Sam already said that. When he doesn't respond, Sam clears his throat and prods gently, "You'll be there, right?"

That prompts Dean to look up. Sam's face is hopeful, puppy-dog eyes cranked up full blast, and Dean suddenly feels terrible for spoiling this. This is a big deal for Sam, and he knows that. But rather than apologizing like he should have, Dean jerkily rises to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair.

"I gotta go," he says gruffly. Jess stands, too, and so does Sam. Dean nods at them without actually looking, and quickly exits the room. He's grabbing his leather jacket off of the coffee table when Jess catches up to him, stopping him with a hand on his upper arm.

"Dean, wait," she pleads, but Dean shakes his head, shrugging off her arm so he can slip his jacket on. "I made pie for desert, Dean! Your favorite. Won't you please stay, just for a slice?"

She's got tears in her voice, and Dean freezes with his hand on the doorknob. He heaves a heavy sigh and turns back to her. He stares at her for a long moment, saying nothing. In the end she's the one that moves, throwing her arms around his neck. Her tears are making his neck wet, and he wraps his arms around her.

"You _will_ come to the wedding, won't you?" she asks, voice muffled by his jacket. "It'll kill Sam if you don't. He won't admit it, because he's stubborn like you," she hiccups out a little laugh, "but it _will_."

Dean kisses the top of her head in a silent apology, because there's a lump in his throat that won't let the words out. She nods once, then steps back, sniffling. She offers him a watery smile, but he can't find it in him to return the gesture. He leaves without another word.

_**xoxoxoxoxo**_

Dean is driving away from Sam's house like a bat out of Hell, not bothering with the speed limit or even with where exactly he's going. He's driven these same roads all his life, so he isn't too worried about getting lost –regardless of where he goes, he'll always end up somewhere he knows.

He thinks that maybe he'll go crash at Ash's place. It's out this way, and Dean's too tired by now to drive all the way home. He shudders lightly as the now-familiar chills wash over him again. The eerie gaze hadn't left him since Sam's house, but it wasn't until not that it started _looking_ again. Whatever privacy the invisible peeping tom had given him during his argument with Sam was apparently gone now.

He decides that he _will _go to Ash's. Ash, at the very least, won't look at him funny if he says something about being watched by someone he can't see. Ash is big on government conspiracies. If he's lucky, maybe Pamela will be there –she's crazier than he is, and she believes in ghosts and séances and psychic energy, and even if it's all bullshit it would make him feel better to have _someone _tell him he isn't crazy for claiming to be watched by invisible people.

Then again, the last time Pamela was at Ash's place when Dean showed up, his eyes had been melted by sights he could never unsee including his two friends, a miniature crucifix, and very little in the way of clothing.

He is still grimacing over the memory when something warm and solid brushes against his cheek. He jerks away, very nearly flipping his Impala into a ditch. He looks around wildly, feeling eyes on him, and he can hear breathing coming from _somewhere _and oh, God, what the _fuck_?

He isn't watching the road, isn't keeping track of his hands. He doesn't know that he's drifted into the other lane until a loud blaring noise fills his ears and he looks back at the road. A semi is barreling towards him, and Dean jerks at the wheel, but already he _knows_. He knows he won't get back into his lane in time –no matter what he does, his side of the car is going to be hit head-on.

He closes his eyes briefly and thinks, _Sorry I won't make it to the wedding, Sammy_, and then he opens his eyes and everything is blindingly white, all headlights, and there's a good half a second where all he hears is a terrible screech that might have been metal colliding with metal or his own terrified scream, and then there is absolutely nothing.

_**xoxoxoxoxo**_

The first thing Dean registers as he comes into consciousness is pain. It isn't a sharp pain, or a violent pain, or even a particularly painful pain –it is a dull, barely-there but all-consuming, completely numb kind of pain, like the feeling of trying to put pressure on a limb that's fallen asleep, except all over his body.

The next thing is a soft, insistent beep that sounds far away, like its coming from underwater. He opens his eyes, curious, and snaps them shut again when bright light floods his vision. He groans, shifting uncomfortably, and then groans again because fuck, he hurts, even if he can't really feel it.

He opens his eyes again, carefully this time, and stares at the wall opposite of him. It's totally blank and completely unfamiliar, and he turns his head slowly to take in the rest of the room. At least, that's his intention –his brain is telling his head to move, but it doesn't seem willing to listen. The beeping speeds up as Dean struggles with himself, forcing himself to sit up. He only makes it about two inches before pain explodes in his everything, ripping the air from his lungs as effectively as a punch to the stomach. He falls bonelessly back to the bed he's on, tears of pain stabbing at his eyes.

"I would advise against trying that again."

The voice comes from his right and it makes Dean jerks in surprise. It's a reaction he instantly regrets as invisible knives slice through him, sawing at his very soul. The pain is too intense, not numb anymore, and he convulses, agony pulling at his muscles and making him twitch wildly. The beeping goes haywire until the pain blocks the sound out, and he doesn't realize he's whimpering, tears rolling down his cheeks. A hand settles itself firmly on his chest, pressing him down into the mattress, grounding him until the twitching subsides into shivering.

When his ears decide to function properly, he hears a quiet, rough voice making cooing sounds, as though trying to calm him. The voice doesn't sound particularly happy about it –awkward, like its owner isn't used to comforting people– but it helps Dean relax all the same. He's still crying (not that he'd admit that to anyone, ever) but the pain is subsiding, his –very manly– whimpers dying away into hiccups and finally to nothing.

His eyes are squeezed shut again, but he can feel the hand still on his chest, though it isn't holding him down anymore. It's –its almost _petting_ him, really, and okay, Dean has no idea who it belongs to or where he is but he's hurt and terrified, and maybe he's (definitely) not thinking straight, but the slow circles rubbing warmth into his chest are a nice change from the seizure-inducing pain.

When he opens his eyes for the third time, all he sees is blue. He thinks for a moment that he's not really seeing anything, and his brain is just filling in with a random color until his vision straightens itself out. But then his eyes focus, and he realizes that the blue is really somebody else's eyes. They're staring at him intently, connected to a face he doesn't know, but a powerful wave of deja vu washes over him and he swears he's seen those eyes before.

The man is about Dean's age, and he's standing over him, his hand still smoothing over Dean's chest. His hair is dark and messy, like he hasn't bothered combing it, and a day or two's worth of stubble covers his face. He's wearing a wrinkled suit with a loosely tied tie, and the trench coat he's wearing is torn in multiple places. He looks worn and ragged, like he hasn't rested for a while. Dean isn't sure whether he should be scared or angry, but he settles for confused because seriously, who the fuck _is_ this guy?

He opens his mouth to ask just that, but all that comes out is a weak rasp and then he's coughing, like he hasn't used his voice in months. When he can finally breathe again, the man lifts a plastic cup to his lips and demands, "Drink."

Dean doesn't want to. He doesn't want to drink whatever is in that cup, because for all he knows it could be spiked or poisonous or some kind of wheatgrass shot. He turns his head away as much as he can, and the liquid spills down his chin and onto his neck. He hisses at the cold. The cup is removed, and his eyes dart up to stare at his –kidnapper? Dean has no idea.

The guy has taken a step back, holding the plastic cup awkwardly, looking uncomfortable and worried and inexplicably hurt while at the same time having no discernable facial expression other than a slightly furrowed brow. Dean figures all the emotions come from his eyes. "You need to drink," he insists, but he doesn't put the cup back to Dean's lips. He stares at Dean, and Dean stares back, uncertain.

Finally Dean sighs, flicking his eyes upward before looking back at the man. The guy seems to get the message because he steps forward and presses the cup to Dean's lips once more. This time, Dean opens his mouth, and because he's fearing the worst he's pleasantly surprised to find that it's just cold water. He drinks it greedily, and when the cup is pulled away, he makes an unintentional, needy, desperate little sound.

"My apologies," the man says, but when Dean looks at him again he looks more relieved than apologetic. "Drinking too much at the present time would result in... unpleasant effects."

Dean swallows roughly, his throat still far drier than is normal, but this time when he tries to speak, he manages to force out, "What...?" before his voice dies away in a pathetic puff of air.

The man seemed to understand his question regardless. "You were caught in an automobile wreckage," he says slowly, as if choosing his words carefully. Or maybe he just doesn't think Dean can understand very well at this point. Dean's not to sure about that, either.

He watches Dean, almost cautiously, as though expecting him to be angry, but his expression remains blank. Dean's eyes widen at the news and then his brows draw down in another question he can't ask.

"I was –I watched it happen. You were _dying_, and I had to –but I _couldn't_. So I pulled you from the wreck. There was –you were dying, and I _saved_ you. _I saved you_," the man is babbling, leaning over Dean, eyes wide as he stares into Dean's own and his voice desperate, almost like he's begging for something but Dean isn't sure what.

Dean isn't sure what to say. He _can't_ say anything, and for that he's immensely grateful. But the guy is shoving another cup of water at him, urging him to drink. "Am I… in the hospital?" he whispers, unable to conjure up a stronger voice. Surprise flashes over the man's face, and then he grips Dean's shoulders tightly.

"_You must not go there_," he says, eyes burning into Dean's and making him uncomfortable. He opens his mouth –whether to ask why or tell the guy to fuck off he isn't sure– but the guy continues, face utterly serious but eyes wild. "You go there, and they will _find_ you. You must stay here. I can help you. I can fix you. I can _keep you safe_."

He sounds so sincere, looks so desperate for Dean to trust him, that he almost wishes that he does. But he doesn't. It figures that he would almost die in a violent car crash only to be saved by some hobo in a trench coat who's a few cards short of a full deck.

But then, despite the guy's ragged appearance, he doesn't seem too much like a homeless guy. From what Dean can see of the room, it is scarcely furnished, but it's _nice_. And Dean's figured out that the beeping is coming from a heart monitor –something he doubts a random guy off the street would just have lying around.

All in all, he's completely baffled. It must show on his face, because the guy's shoulders slump and his face droops a little. "You do not trust me." It isn't a question, and Dean can't help but feel a little bad at the hurt in the guy's voice. But when he speaks again, his voice is flat, devoid of all emotion.

"Listen to me, Dean," he says, and Dean will admit to being a bit freaked out because _Jesus_, the guy wasn't too big but he was kind of fucking _terrifying_, and how in the _fuck _did he know Dean's name? "If you leave this place, you will die. Do you understand me?"

Dean stares at him blankly before his face contorts into a scowl. "Is that a _threat_?" he demands with as much ferocity as he can muster. It isn't very much.

"It is a _fact_," the guy corrects coldly. Dean swallows nervously, because as much as he wants to laugh this whole thing off, he can tell this guy is serious. If Dean tries to leave –not that he really _can_, considering he can't sit up without nearly killing himself– this guy will kill him. If he tries to leave, he will die.

There is a long silence where Dean looks anywhere but at the strange man with electric blue eyes hovering over him, those eyes cutting through Dean as though they can see his _soul_.

Finally the man clears his throat, tilting his head to one side as though he's listening to something only he can hear. "I must go," he says, and Dean finally chances a look at him. He isn't looking at Dean anymore, and he seems calmer. "I will return."

He pushes some buttons next to Dean's head that he can't see but that worries him, because he thinks that maybe the guy is drugging him. Dean opens his mouth to protest, but he blinks and the guy is gone. He blinks again just to be sure, but the man is really gone. _He moves fast,_ Dean thinks.

He feels something pulling at him, tugging at his mind and weighing it down. His thoughts grow sluggish, fuzzy, and he feels grim satisfaction in the fact that yes, he has most definitely been drugged. His thoughts drift briefly to Sam, to how long he's been gone, wondering if he's missed the wedding. He thinks of the strange feeling of being watched that had plagued him, and about the strange man who saved his life. He thinks about the way the guy stared at him, how he seemed so _familiar_. He feels like there's something he's missing, some connection his brain should be seeing, some revelation he should be reaching. But his mind is grinding slowly to a halt, and before he can connect the dots he's trying to form, he slips into unconsciousness.

_**xoxoxoxoxo**_

**A/N: **Hello everyone! :D I don't really have much to say. Just thank you for reading, and please,_ please _review. I'm new to the writing portion of this site, but I know plenty of people who get nothing but story alerts and they end up quitting on their stories because they don't get feedback, and then we're all sad. Not that I have a problem with alerts! I'm just saying that it'd be nice to hear what you all think.

Having said that, I do hope you've enjoyed it so far. Let me know if you see typos or anything like that. :) I've got plans for this story. Which means, of course, that it probably won't end up going the way I intend it to at all, but meh. What can I do? I'm just the author. :(


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